Fyth Nid Anghofiaf Hyn
by GgbroTG
Summary: A foot soldier in the Welsh army watches his leader get killed in front of his eyes. On his quest for revenge, he gets drawn into the age-old battle between The Assassins and The Templars. This fic will mostly be in English, though there will be some Welsh thrown in there during dialogue. Any constructive criticism is welcome.


We walked on, ignoring the bitter cold weather of early December. Although it was only the start of winter, the lakes had begun to freeze over, and the land was covered by a sheet of snow. Even with the harsh weather surrounding me, I couldn't help but feel happy. I, a completely average foot soldier in the Welsh army, had been chosen personally by Llywelyn ap Gruffydd himself to accompany him to a meeting to try and gather support in the surrounding villages. 18 of us had been chosen, and I was honoured to be one of them.

"Set up camp here men, we've cover from the North wind, and enough firewood to last us the next few days." I heard Llywelyn call from up the path.

"Certainly, sir, we'll get the fires lit as soon as possible." A soldier replied, and upon hearing this, we started to gather firewood.

I strolled through the forest, looking for loose logs and other sticks. Through the trees, I could see that we must be on a mountain or cliff of some sort, as there was an obvious drop around 20 metres away. I decided to walk towards the edge; I always liked the scenery you could usually see, nothing to obstruct your view. As I neared the edge, I could see the flickers of fires in the forest below. At first, I guessed they were the camps of hunters, but as I looked more closely, I noticed that there were too many of them, too close together. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together in my head… If the English caught word of Llywelyn – the Prince of Wales – travelling virtually alone, with only a small group of soldiers accompanying him, they'd probably make a move…

I dropped the logs I was carrying, and accelerated to a run, heading in the direction of our camp, I had to warn the others of the dormant army waiting to attack us. As I ran into the clearing where our camp was situated, I saw my brethren fighting fiercely for their lives. We were outnumbered, but seeing as the attackers were only scouts, we had a chance of survival. I ran into the battle, my hand moving towards my sword, ready to attack. I drew my sword so it pointed forwards, and collided with the nearest attacker, my sword finding its way through between his helmet and his body armour. He was dead before he knew I was there, and he fell to the floor, blood leaking from the wound. This was the first time my sword had tasted blood in months, and – though I hate to admit it – I found happiness in seeing how effective a weapon it was. I turned right, swinging my blade as I did, cutting into another foe, who fell to the floor like the first. Before long, we'd defeated the attackers, those who weren't lying lifeless on the floor, had fled.

I was the first to see the lone lancer who came out of the woods, making his way towards Llywelyn. Before I'd even had a chance to react, his lance pierced through Llywelyn's chest, leaving a gaping hole where his coat of arms should be, you could say it was symbolic. I don't think the lancer even knew that he'd killed Llywelyn, I suppose I feel somewhat sorry for him, as my dagger hit him between the eyes before he could call his allies, let alone acknowledge who he'd killed. I ran to Llywelyn, ignoring the commotion around me as more troops attacked my allies. I knelt beside him, feeling my heart sink as I knew that it was all over; Edward would take over Wales, we'd lose whatever freedom we had left.

"_Syr, arhoswch gyda fi, wnai ddod o hyd i ddoctor, bydd popeth yn iawn! _(Sir, stay with me, I'll find a doctor, everything will be fine!)" I said to him, not believing my own words, I knew that not even Llywelyn could survive a wound like that.

"My friend, you know I won't live for much longer, there's no way to heal this wound. All I ask of you is that you leave Wales, escape, find yourself a new home, there's no reason for you to be affected by Edward conquering our homeland." Llywelyn replied, he had a point, but I couldn't leave Wales, I couldn't let it be taken over.

"_Syr, fedrai ddim addo hynny i ti… _(Sir, I can't promise you that…)"

Upon hearing the galloping of horses behind me, and the hurried footsteps of an army, I stood up and drew my sword.

"Friend, you can't fight them alone, you have to leave!" Llywelyn said to me.

"_Ond syr- _(But sir-)" I protested. I wasn't going to let the English harm him, no matter how close he was to death.

"Go soldier! That's an order!" He cut me off, it was then I made my decision. In reality any reason for me to stay and fight, I'd be killed within seconds.

I didn't want to leave Llywelyn, but I did. I ran back into forest, looking back over my shoulder just long enough to see Llywelyn be beheaded. It was then and there that I made a promise to myself that I would avenge Llywelyn. _Llywelyn ein Llyw Olaf…_


End file.
